Best Unflattering Poems
Skimming through paragraphs,
I seem to stretch time and shrink my attention
Underlining words I can't grasp
With my limited span of concentration,
Creating art I can't explain
Stick men and asymmetrical shapes,
Spiralling into mazes and dotted lines
Lost in an alphabet jungle.
Encircling page numbers,
Decorating the margins with unflattering flowers,
Marking pages with , blue, pink, fluorescent ink, washing them dry
And awfully bright, missing out on the 'fatality rate' mentioned.
Little wings sprouting from a wavering mind, flying away from topics of discussion.
Dragging my imaginary feet across events in memory;
faces and voices muffled and in disarray
Eyes still glued to statistics and rates,
But seeing ten thousand flickery lights ;
dreams of glitter and starry nights.
Thoughts then seem like little bubbles,
helping me procrastinate much longer.
A finger snap would sound like a rifle shot at this point,
Shattering the world I made,
And awareness rising from rubbles,
Would speak for itself, about things I cannot evade.
I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your limp laughter and scared stares.
I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.
I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined
by my appalling appearance.
"How dare you be here! What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie, you slob, just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."
The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously from the bows of bastard
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground.
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run
differently.
I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more.
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.
I do not love for love,
Nor will I hate for hate.
Cannot, I, feel for you,
To just reciprocate.
Unflattering as is,
Unempathetic me,
An honest truth still is
Most complimentary.
A MOTHER’S WORDS
A mother’s words can be hurtful
Or make you feel high
They can give you strength and courage
Or make you want to die
A mother’s words stay with you
When you are far away
They can be words of wisdom
Or ones to spoil your day
My mother’s words still puzzle me
I don’t think she meant to be unkind
I wish she never had said them
I tried really not to mind.
I was never good enough
To win her words of praise
She loved the others more than me
Through all our childhood days
I tried not to let words hurt me
Some were hard to bear
Often when she'd speak to me
I wished I wasn’t there
She filled me with trepidation
Tried to instill fear
Words harsh and unflattering
For a child’s ears to hear
I’d turn away dejected
Uncertain of my worth
She praised my other siblings
God’s blessings they were on earth
I never met her expectations
Even when things I did were great
Her view of me was negative
I tried hard not to hate
I longed for her recognition
for the things that I had done
Or simple congratulations
for honors I had won
Now that I am old and grown
With children of my own
Supportive words I try to speak
To show how much I care
I remember my dejection
How her spirit made me frown
I vowed my words would never -- ever
Tear my children down
When It Rains It Pours
Idiomatic sayings are such a delightful way of expressions,
The truth in them may sometimes stretch our imagination..
When it rains, it pours is one such expressive gem of wisdom..
When troubles in numbers mirror realism in a weather phenomenon..
Here in Bolehland widely hailed as a Land of Endless Possibilities...
Ernest concerted efforts are put in place to deny negative publicity...
Like minded politicians are staying resolute behind a highly ranked civil servant..
Whose exalted position demands he be above controversies as a public servant...
Electorates on the ground are increasingly befuddled and anguished each day..
As snippets of less than positive news and episodes are revealed each day...
It is widely accepted that the door of opportunity closes while another opens..
Likewise all tall tales of lies and deceit, numerous are the twists and turns...
Here in Bolehland, there is outright shock and disgust at the latest turn of events..
After months of in-depth investigative reports, no one could comprehend...
When the highest legal prosecution office in Bolehland triumphantly blared...
Despite the voluminous reports and papers, there was no crime to declare ....
The presumably guilty topmost civil servant was declared squeaky clean...
To top it all, he was so honorable as to have had returned millions unseen...
The gossip mill is rampant and unflattering over this latest seal of innocence..
More so when there are incoming news of global inquiry and investigations...
The court of public opinion is out there in the streets of Bolehland...
To the man in the street, he is seeing multiple acts of Houdini first hand...
But as the proverbial wisdom has so aptly been used when troubles abound...
When it rains, it pours, especially for someone in high office in Bolehland.....
To all interested, seat back and watch the melodrama as it unfolds by each day...
When it rains, it pours should hopefully reveal the elusive truth one fine day...
http://malaysiansmustknowthetruth.blogspot.com/2016/01/a-world-of-scandal-descends-on.html?ref=source
https://sg.news.yahoo.com/twists-turns-najib-rm2-6-230008097.html?nhp=1
You were seduced by silicate reflections,
unflattering images
of your perceived epidermal imperfections
The bedroom mirror showed you
your deepest fear
It's crystalline voice told you
what you wanted to hear
Enhance your beauty
surgically
Change your outer self
cosmetically
But the silicate mirror lied,
it didn't tell you the whole truth
about shedding some of your skin
Once the laser knife goes in,
and parts of yourself
gets thrown in the trash bin
You won't recognize yourself anymore
Someone else is gonna be looking back at you,
somebody you never knew
This person is gonna sell to you,
that they're better than your natural self
Rearranged celluloid perfection
erases the flaws you always seemed to see
The mirror speaks with superfluous authority,
lying so seductively
The new you didn't erase your inner scars permanently,
but you're the magazine cover you always wanted to be
The lying mirror says you acted so bravely ...
Enhanced your beauty
surgically
Changed your outer self
cosmetically
You did what the mirror told you to do,
made yourself into a better you
But the beauty you wanted so desperately,
had already began to fade ...
the moment your skin kissed the blade
The silicate seducer tricked you,
played on your vanity,
played on your insecurity
And as your body withers away over time,
the disingenuous mirror is gonna chortle to you: tell you
that your faded, altered beauty was a self-inflicted crime
A Perfect Day Never Ends (or, If Chloe was a Poet)
The lazy breeze swoops in through the grassy lawn, tickles our necks,
barely a whisper; sitting back-to-back,
we exchange ideas for your next photo.
Chiaroscuro, maybe, of the canopy; an unbroken shadow.
I don't know. I dabble.
But I write great titles.
"A Perfect Day Never Ends."
Yours is the greatest of gifts; I only spin words.
But today we are not sparring with our chosen mediums
(An unflattering candid; a stinging poem!),
today we are looking for the feathers of bluebirds
for your scrapbook documentation of "The Birds of Oregon."
No wonder I write the titles.
We go back to the movie room, where you trade your skinny jeans for shorts
and we watch Donnie Darko in low light.
We do not care for the time of night.
In the soft glow of Donnie's school scene,
I turn to you to expound my theory,
but you are already asleep.
The poet in me smiles.
What photography and poetry share
is the elusive moment we often only capture
in our memories, fragile as the wings of butterflies.
I prayed to God hoping he’d send me a distraction.
Then I just stood around, and well, nothin’ happened.
So I said, “This just proves you don’t really exist,
and it leaves no excuse not to take the initiative.”
So I wrote you a postcard postmarked from Hell,
and I assume you received it, but it’s hard to tell.
Cuz I checked days off of calendars, hours off clocks,
and never found a response in my post office box.
And it’s hard to forget all the sweet things you told me
before you washed your hands like I was uncooked poultry.
I know I should be over it; I thought I was stronger.
I’ve said, “Time heals everything,” but I don’t any longer.
I’ve always had the good fortune of attracting lovers,
but I have two categories, and you’re not like the others.
You’re the secret I keep, and it keeps me humble,
and when I try to sleep, it awakes like a jungle.
And it terrifies me cuz I know I won’t get out alive;
but that a’int the scary part, it’s the waitin’ to die.
And there are unflattering descriptions to define such a scenario;
I discuss it with the sad singer I’ve trapped in my stereo.
We conclude to write it down and examine it on paper
with a grain of optimism that it’ll all make sense later.
`
“In the craft of a rhyme, there’s no loss in the time”
Sitting at my desk, gray walls, unflattering
as the fluorescent lighting brings boredom
to the page as I challenge myself to write
“In this cubicle I stay, among all forms of gray”
Free verse or rhyme, it matters not
if that thread of inspiration isn’t woven
into my thoughts as I struggle for a theme
“With words come a cost, if thoughts are found lost”
Love is the standard for me, regardless of form,
through dawning horizons and moonbeam quivers,
my footsteps lead into the vast display
“Come morning or night, my heart tends to write”
And again I find, that merely the thought of you,
your beauty, your smile, your kiss embraces me so
that my pen finds its way to the page happily
“Your love forever keeps me warm, no matter what my chosen form”
11/27/19
Written for : The Free Verse vs Structured poetry contest
Sponsored by: Line Gauthier
Our God is bountiful because
He is the epitome of pious,
the paragon of virtue
and the abridgment of righteousness.
Rising from amidst the flame
of hope and unprecedented 'happiness'
a soul all too great
for we are his creatures
And he- our creation!
The 'unwavering' presence of Him
with his abode in our souls
his flattering and 'astounding' presence felt in every step
for we are his creatures
And he- our creation!
A guiding light...
The unflattering glimmer of hope
A life all along presiding under us...
beneath us....AMONG US!!!
for we are his creatures
And he- our creation!
Yes! He exists...not as one...
But as many...
Not Inside one!!
But inside millions!!
for we are his creatures
And he- our creation!
But yes he is the one...
The one and the only one!
Believe me....He is 'irreplaceable'
He is 'inevitable'!
But sure yes, we are his creatures
And he- our creation !
Well,
Our God is bountiful because
He is the One.
He is unparalleled!
At midnight tonight, adieu 2015!
The scandal that’s 1MDB, with its many twists and turns, continued throughout 2015…
Venomous charges and contercharges hit the headlines unabated through this year..
The on-going saga, with its numerous side developments, serve up a fascinating read…
Day after day, to this very day, there is typically only unflattering news about 1MDB…
At midnight today, adieu 2015!
We may not recall the date May 4th but we do remember a most dastardly deed in 2015…
When 4 armed gunmen stormed a restaurant in Sandakan, Sabah in the crime of the year..
The gunmen made a mockery of our heightened security, the dusk- to-dawn curfew…
The Malaysian army, police and navy were caught napping in the face of this kidnapping…
At midnight tonight, adieu 2015!
Political fanfare took a back seat when something catstrophic happened in mid 2015…
18 climbers were killed in rockfalls while up on the slopes of Mt Kinabalu, early dawn of June 5th..
When a 5.9 Richter scaled earthquake hit mountainous Ranau, and triggered mudslides…
Tales of heroism and individuals acts of courage catapulted mountain climbers into hero status..
At midnight tonight, adieu 2015!
Most Malaysians are going to stay awake to bid goodbye to the year that was 2015…
The optimistic ones will be looking forwards to the dawn of a brand new year in 2016..
With the many horrible stories and bad news that have assailed Malaysia this year..
Most of us will not miss 2015 for this annus horriblis is best be forgotten in earnest…
At midnight tonight, Adieu and Good Riddance 2015!
Welcome, Welcome, Happy New Year 2016 !
She exudes the struggle of acquiring autonomy from her “faux mother” charmingly characterized. dramatized, and energized by Jamie Lee Curtis. The ladder reputable, suitable and quantifiable role as Doctor Tess Coleman transfixed at the larger than life superb therapist.
Despite the countless unflattering run ins with the law (sans, the emotional travails regularly broadcast afflicting the particularly mid/late twenty year old Lindsay Lohan), this chap can empathize, realize and sympathize mental health issues.
A substantial proportion of thine lviii birthdays counted from this anonymous fellow experienced profound anxiety, obsessive compulsive disorder, panic attacks, and as an added bonus schizoid personality disorder.
Thus, as the media hounds ferociously, meanly and vicious tore into the private antics of a starlet supposedly plagued with mailer daemons, I lamented the constant besiegement of popular culture craze to glean scads of disheartening, demeaning and daring to lambaste (who I presume to be) an exceptionally beautiful, justifiably gainful, and opportunistically lustful questing toward worthwhile peacefulness, stillness and to remain anonymous amidst the madding crowd.
No ulterior motive incites this astute, destitute, and glute (joyful my poop site works) tea us Maximus (palm pilot size) chap to cast his commendations in regard to one personality who found a figurative soft spot within the bosom of this beastie boy.
True add verse situation,
whereat me mission
trans send dint state didst ache
after yours truly nearly
did nearly break
chassis 'pon took drastic
over corrective measure,
not quite August,
nor jejune piece of cake,
while rounding raised
curbed contra corner
suddenly felt wrath of wife quake,
viz passenger rear tire
gone flat as a pancake
impresario found myself
hearing Thus Spake,
Zarathustra, when in truth...
twas ma constricted trach.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Some weeks back
acting so cool and chic - bank
king all bravado, machismo
self importance, and frank
lee babbling like a cripple creek
off by a black key with Hank
Williams tune imagining
myself swaggering like a lank
key trump petting Don
(feigning faw being "Beefy") plank
walking lampoon able
laughingstock Freaky, thank
less as a lapsed worn eraser head
pencil necked Geek yank
key doodle dandy hood be
forced to do penance as cap
pit dull leotarded asinine
arthouse flop, where nary any words
(worth their weight in gold)
described my benign
behavior, NOT even
smattering of unflattering deign
nig grating hammock colorful expletives,
that would find an ensign
sailor to blush at my inept
shameless travesty over the line
utter in apropos totally tubularly
moronic juvenile mine
ness zero car raze zee antics,
didst drive my doppelganger nine
tee bajillion miles away in search
of another auto body – pine
ning for newer model
then a 2009 Hyundai Sonata sign
ning off contract with this
stunt driver wannabe
unimpressively try'n
to act the blithe dare devil,
while thee spouse didst wine
and scream more'n bloody Mary
as the gunned axle nearly broke
trying my damn nest to
"FAKE" dagger a type cloak
his husband resembled a fool,
where angels fear to tread didst evoke
unsuccessful, unstinting, and unsparing
unstrung epithets of colorful expletives
unsuitable for poetic folk
boot urgent prayer went out
to incredible Hulk
Hogan, and/or even the ghost
of Andre The Giant, this haint no joke!
I can still picture Janno – a sweet nerdy cross-eyed girl from my school
who wore unflattering clothing and oddly-framed glasses.
Her grandmother was my unsimiling fifth grade teacher,
and later in Junior high, her father was my science teacher.
Barklay was the gangly weird boy, the one nobody hung around with.
The ugly house he lived on was way up on a hill.
It was dark and lonesome looking – this strangely haunted looking house,
almost a metaphor for Barklay himself.
There were rumors of bad things happening there.
I was just in grade school and not totally aware
that his parents perhaps were real life monsters,
and maybe that’s why Barklay came to school
dressed shoddily, with hair uncombed and dirty.
I’d walked home from school with both these kids
at one time or another (though not with them together at the same time).
I have no memory of what I ever talked with each one of them about.
Normally I walked with my sisters or friends I came to know.
Not that popular myself, I had always had a soft spot for underdogs.
And for whatever reason, I just recall walking home with them.
Once in a great while, they cross my mind. What became of them?
I fear poor Barklay stood little chance for a good future.
I don’t recall seeing Janno after grade school. Did she move?
I hope she blossomed, and I bet that she became a teacher!
Dec. 9, 2020
for L Milton Hankins' Story From Your Childhood Poetry Contest
Okay! Okay, just gimme a minute, or maybe even two.
It's just like you to pull up a chair just so I can sit next to you.
But I know you well enough not to fuss about anything at all.
Or
You will holler and hoot and act like a pouty faced doll.
Googling slime lids! Not salads once again; no not today!
Every food day is full of special green covered goon hay:(
You must feel really smart, eating fancy food that tastes like grass picked right off of the plains.
And the dreadfully endless tongue twisting, chew spitting and trying to pronounce all the intellectualized names.
You're evermore unflattering food names make everything I say, sound so rude; who!
But seriously though dude, it's not like I am obligated to eat with you; few!
But all of that sounds so bland, like organic sugar free maple syrup covered in fresh beach gathered sand.
So I promise I'll be a good little guest and wash my sweet syrup beach blonde maple colored hands.
If I wasn't being spoiled rotten or being tortured by nice,
You may have noticed our WAITER just drop off some cranberry ice.
You didn't know about juice flavored ice from Dwin?
I thought everyone knew about my fidgeting twin, named Lynn from the fruit flavored Iceland of Dwin.
I mean common, she's out of town, why else would I have this extra chair to sit in?
I brought cash so just forget about your half of the tip, I couldn't help myself indeed; as I ate all of your Doll-Yapper seeds.
They too are native to Dwin and beat the greens off your funky salad twin and beans.
Honestly though, I only sat down here for some strange on the clock fun.
And aside from being Debra Downer, (my real name), I Got paid to pull up a chair to relax and sit on my buns!
END
May 18, 2017